


Hole in the Wall

by stayawake



Category: Dear Evan Hansen - Pasek & Paul/Levenson
Genre: Anger, Angry Connor, Angst, M/M, cynthia doesnt know what to do
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-18
Updated: 2017-09-18
Packaged: 2018-12-31 03:31:36
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,280
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12123603
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stayawake/pseuds/stayawake
Summary: Sometimes his anger took over and he wasn't Connor anymore. Sometimes life is shitty.





	Hole in the Wall

**Author's Note:**

> My first DEH fic! Let me know what you think. I was just feeling a lot of feelings and had to write it down. A lot of this is from my own life and incorporating DEH into the story. I relate too much to Connor tbh. I've written plenty of other stuff, just let me know if any of you would be interested in another chapter!!

He can’t see. He can’t feel. He can’t think. He isn’t Connor. All there is in place of him is anger. It controls him and the only thing he can focus on is hurting himself or breaking something. His eyes dart around his bedroom and he wants to scream because nothing he throws will break or make a loud enough sound. He grabs a book and throws it with both hands against his carpet. It flops to the side pathetically and Connor wants to scream at the top of his lungs. He chucks a pair of scissors at the wall and curses when it leaves a small dent. He doesn’t even want to think about his parents finding another hole in the wall. That’s all he is, really. A fucking hole in the wall.

He can already imagine his sarcastic response to his parents demanding answers to the dents in his walls. _I’m just adding to the collection_ he would say with a smirk. His father can’t even talk with all the things his anger has broken over the years. _Like father like son._

Connor runs the scissors over his bare legs a few times and small red bubbles appear across his thighs. A couple of lines don’t even split open, just merely tease him with red marks. He feels so pathetic that he can’t even cut himself properly.

His anger is flowing out of him like the blood from his cuts. He looks around his room some more and throws his water bottle, a shoe, another book; anything that will make a noise as loud as his anger.

He blindly grabs a small dish on his desk that holds a few paper clips. Connor flips it over in his hands a couple times, the rough edges of the pottery rubbing against his fingers. It’s sloppily put together and painted in dark colors. Connor runs his fingers against the indents on the bottom of the dish.

Zoe was six when she was in pottery class. Their parents were obsessed with having well-rounded children. From sports teams to gymnastics to art classes, Connor and Zoe were involved in more activities than most kids. Connor started losing interest in that kind of stuff when he was seven. That’s when he started becoming angry. That’s when something would set him off and he couldn’t control himself before his anger took over and he was destroying something.

He spent years watching his father get angry and take his anger out physically. From screaming to punching the wall to throwing Connor over his shoulder and locking him in his room, Larry was aggressive when it came to his anger. Connor feared him more than anything. From a young age, he vowed to never become his father.

Connor couldn’t help himself. Once Larry locked him in his bedroom out of anger and Connor retaliated by grabbing a flashlight and banging it against his bedroom door. He ended up with a bunch of dents in the door until a few days later when he came home from school and there was a brand new door in place of his old one; a brand new, fresh, white bedroom door. Connor’s anger was gone without a trace.

He tried to control his anger in public and it was easier, but he couldn’t help when it took over. He remembered the anger he felt at his second grade teacher. He remembered the anger coursing through him. He remembered grabbing the nearest, biggest thing he could find, a printer, and throwing it toward his teacher. It didn’t reach her, only fell to the ground and breaking.

He could remember screaming from his teacher and the other students. His anger was gone and replaced with fear as he was dragged to the office and forced to face his parents. They were silent on the car ride home, not even punishing him when they got back to the house. Connor remembered falling onto his bed and crying into his pillow. He prayed and wished for his mother to come comfort him. All he wanted was the sound of her voice soothing him and her hand rubbing circles into his back.

Connor fell asleep alone that night.

Zoe was at pottery class after school that day. Her mom mentioned that Connor was feeling sick and might not want to leave his room that night. Zoe agreed to not bother him, only worried about her older brother. At pottery class she decided to make something for Connor. She grabbed as much clay as she could and went to work forming the prettiest bowl she could. She ran her fingers over it hundreds of times wanting to smooth over the edges and make it look perfect. On the bottom she scratched in her name with a heart. She loved her big brother.

At her next pottery class she used the paints to mix Connor’s favorite color. His room was painted a light blue, but she knew he preferred dark blue. She knew it would be another week until she could take home her creation for Connor, but Zoe was still bursting with pride and excitement. Connor would love it.

When Zoe was finally able to bring home her pottery for Connor she was bouncing up and down with excitement. She held her creation tightly against her chest for the whole car ride. She couldn’t let anything happen to it. Cynthia smiled through the rear view mirror as she glanced at Zoe. She wasn’t close to her brother, but she was happy her children were close. She only wished they would stay close for the rest of their lives and grow up as best friends. She wanted them to have what she never got.

_“Connor!” Zoe had screamed the second she stepped through the house._

_Larry was sitting at the kitchen table and simply pointed to the stairs only for Zoe to run full speed upstairs. She stood in front of Connor’s door and knocked gently. He hesitantly opened the door._

_“Connor, I made this for you in pottery. I hope it makes you feel better,” she said shyly as she handed him her creation._

_Connor grinned as he took her pottery. “Thanks, Zoe!” he giggled, immediately running over to his nightstand and placing it down gently._

_Zoe followed him inside, both of them looking through stuff in his room to put in the small dish. As they scoured for paper clips and small legos and bouncy balls, Cynthia stood in the hallway and watched them laugh together. Maybe Connor’s anger is just a fluke. Maybe he won’t end up like Larry. Cynthia prayed her son wouldn’t gain her husband’s worst quality._

But now, Connor stood in his room and stared at the pottery Zoe had made for him ten years ago. He ran his fingers over her name and rolled his eyes. Their relationship had deteriorated long ago. She hated him and he was her monster.

Connor took one last look at the pottery before throwing it against his wall, the wall that was connected to Zoe’s room. It broke into a million pieces and crumbled against his carpet. He almost wanted to cry, but he didn’t even care anymore. Their relationship was over years ago. He went to the funeral and grieved and moved on. Fuck Zoe Murphy.

Connor stared at the mess of pottery, of what used to be. His anger was gone now and he was left exhausted. He threw a random shirt over the mess to hide it. He didn’t need a physical reminder that his relationship with Zoe was broken. His life wasn’t a shitty poetry book. It was just shitty.


End file.
